Page 19 of Burned By Sin
With a flourish of his pen, the judge signs the paperwork and hands it to a security guard, who promptly ushers me out so the next case can begin. I hear murmurs behind me as I leave, but I keep walking, a fire under my ass to not hang around long enough for anyone to change their minds. The receptionist at the front desk holds me up whilst she prepares the paperwork, outlining what has been decided here today and the fine I must pay. Shifting my weight from foot to foot, I notice Dr. Hollister by the door, shaking hands with his lawyer and pulling on his coat. I tell myself to keep away, but my feet ignore me.
“Dr Hollister,” I say quietly, my head dipped. Pausing with his fingers over his coat button, he turns slowly, agreeing to hear what I have to say. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry I let you down.” Noting the sincerity in my gaze, the doc nods, finishing the buttoning with the deft fingers of a medical professional.
“I grew up in a similar neighborhood to you, and I know all too well the desire to help everyone. But you simply can’t. There will always be suffering and heartache. We can only do so much before it consumes us, and we deserve to live too. It’s not selfish, it’s necessary,” he pauses, his expression softening. “You’re not a bad person, Clayton. Get your education, gain some life experience, and one day you’ll be in a position to help others.”
The next inhale I take comes a little easier. The doc’s tone is even, lacking all traces of the disdain I’m owed. It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone I can look up to, an example of what a decent man looks like. He may not know it, but Dr Hollister just became that example for me. Pulling his collar higher, he braces himself for the wind howling against the doors.
“Come pay me a visit sometime. I want to see the man you become.” Pushing the door open, he disappears as the ache in my chest eases. My name is called, the paperwork ready, and I’m soon slipping outside too, tugging a beanie over my hair. It’s out of place with the rest of my outfit but I instantly feel better, like a piece of home comfort is with me.
Heading for my truck, the cold air is biting but no longer cutting quite as deep. Somehow, I’ve walked out of here without cuffs or community service. I’m starting to think my luck has turned around, until I see the tattooed cocky bastard leaning against my driver side door. His smile grows wide, as if he’s greeting an old pal.
“Well, did it work?!” he holds out his arms, the brand new parka jacket on his torso stretching wide. I slam the papers into his chest, moving past to unlock my trunk.
“Let me guess, you submitted the new evidence?” Peering over my shoulder, Rhys chuckles, reading the conditions of my release.
“Six thousand dollars,” he whistles, invested in the papers as ifthey’re the evening news. Ignoring him, I hop into the driver’s seat and almost flinch when Rhys pops the passenger door and climbs in. “I’ve got to say, I’m impressed, Scum. Robbery and property damage. I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I don’t. I helped a kid steal meds for his dying mom,” I grumble, turning over the engine. Rhys goes still, his hands dropping into his lap. Thankfully, for one merciless moment, the stupid smile is wiped clean off his face.
“Why do you have to suck the fun out of everything? The next time I have to bail you out, there had better be at least one guy on a ventilator because you bashed his head in with a pipe.” He folds the paper and shoves it into his parka pocket, seemingly resolving the next dilemma I needed to face. How to pay the fine. I don’t argue, I just drive since Rhys seems intent on tagging along.
“There won’t be a next time,” I grit through my teeth. His laughter is low but I hear it over the roar of my exhaust, the billowing black smoke trailing behind suggesting I’ve got other problems to fix. Clenching my jaw, I focus on my hatred for the asshole daring to reach forward and mess about with my radio stations. This is the last time I’ll accept his money. Being indebted to Wavershit is a prison sentence in its own right.
Pulling up outside the apartment building, I head inside, stopping short when a pair of footsteps follow. Rhys crashes into my back and I whirl around to glare at him.
“What are you doing? Where is Harper?” He shrugs like the question barely grazes him.
“She’s fine. Her time of the month arrived so I left her in the hotel room to mope around.” I grind my teeth.
“You didn’t think to stay and comfort her?”
“What do I look like, her gay best friend? She’s got a wide screen TV and room service, I assure you she’s quite happy tucked up in bed watching sappy movies.” To prove his point, Rhys brings up some camera footage onhis phone of Harper beneath the covers, a wooden tray of several desserts poised over her lap. I don’t get the chance to ask why the fuck he’s keeping surveillance on her, because he barges past and takes the stairs two at a time. I suppose at least we know she is safe, even if it is creepy as hell.
“Besides,” Rhys calls back. “I’m here under her strict orders anyway.” That has me groaning. Since when did Rhys follow orders, and what exactly has Harper put him up to? Climbing the staircase, I shoulder past him, the smell of damp and burnt toast following me to the third floor. My key jams in the lock, like even the door knows I shouldn’t be here anymore.
Inside, the studio looks worse than I remember. Or maybe it’s just me seeing it clearly for the first time. The cracked linoleum, the wire bedframe shoved against the wall, the half-eaten takeout containers lined up like trophies of failure. The radiator clicks once and dies, leaving the air stale and cold.
“Wow,” Rhys says from the doorway, his tone dripping with disgust. “This place screamsserial killer starter pack.”
“Leave me alone,” I reply flatly, crossing to the corner where my duffel sits. I start throwing clothes inside. Hoodies, shirts, the few pairs of jeans that don’t have holes in them. There’s no system to it. Just the need to get my stuff packed before someone from the court decides to do it for me.
Rhys doesn’t step inside, but he doesn’t leave either. He lingers in the doorway like a bad smell, his designer jeans and expensive jacket looking almost obscene against the backdrop of mold-stained walls and the faint scratch of rats inside them. His hair is styled in thatI-woke-up-like-thisway that takes at least an hour, and his tattoos catch the thin light from the hallway, wrapping around his throat like the armor he never takes off.
I can feel his shrewd gaze on me as I crouch to drag out the last box from under the bed. It’s filled with books, sketchpads, and a few old photos I can’t bring myself to throw away. Lifting Jeremy’s guitar fromthe corner, I close the duffel with one harsh tug and swing it over my shoulder, the strap biting into my palm.
The walls are starting to close in, misery stitched into the cracks. Nights staring at the ceiling, wondering how I’d fucked up my life this badly. Days where the silence was so thick I thought I might choke on it.
“Enjoy the show?” I glare at Rhys, who still hasn’t moved from his spot. “You can head back to your luxury suite now and laugh about my suffering.”
“Do you always have to be somundane?” Rhys sighs, rolling his eyes. He reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small white card, the kind that smells faintly of money and arrogance. I glance at the printed address but make no move to take it.
“No need to be shy,” he says, waving it closer. “Meet us here, if your rust bucket of a truck can actually make the trip.” Curiosity gets the better of me. I snatch the card from his hand and glance down at the address. Before I can ask, Rhys leaves, that trademark swagger already back in his stride.
“I’m not staying anywhere with you,” I call after him. Rhys pauses, slowly turns back with one brow arched in mock amusement.
“Oh no? What’s your plan then? Shack up with your parole officer? Pitch a tent behind the courthouse?” He chuckles, dragging his thumb across his lip ring. Then his phone buzzes in his pocket, bringing him back to reality. His expression sobers, just barely. “Running won’t fix shit, Scum. It just makes you harder to find.” I open my mouth to bite back a retort, but he cuts me off with a knowing look.
“You know she won’t stop looking,” he adds. “The place I’ve rented is big enough that we don’t even have to see each other. Just… humor her by being there.” My throat constricts, the grip around the guitar tightening.
